


Of Each Thing Ask

by KoreArabin



Category: Black Mirror
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Canes, Humiliation, Lube, M/M, Nudity, Pain, Punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-23 15:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13790568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: Walton is naked, draped over what looks like an old-fashioned racing hurdle, but the top is a steel rail rather than a flat hurdle board. His wrists and ankles are shackled to the base of the contraption, and he has to compensate for the fact his wrists are secured to the same point as his ankles by shifting upwards and forwards over the bar, his ass tilted upwards, defenceless and exposed. He is aware that Daly is standing behind him, his eyes no doubt raking over the bare ass and unprotected genitals laid out before him.





	1. Chapter 1

The minute Daly enters the bridge, Walton knows that he is fucked. Daly's going to punish him, and Daly's going to ensure that it fucking hurts. 

The Captain doesn't even bother going through the motions of the normal pleasantries; he simply grabs Walton by the hair and smashes his face against the drinks cabinet.

"Lieutenant, you have tried my patience once too often."

Walton tries, really tries, his chin quivering and his eyes welling up with tears as his nose begins to stream blood and snot, to distract Daly, whispering, "I don't understand, Sir. I've plotted Valdack's position, as you asked. He has no idea that we are tracking him."

Daly snarls.

"Valdack? _Valdack?_ You knew where he was even before we entered the Bargradian free trade quadrant, and you did _nothing_ to alert me, or the rest of the crew!"

Walton flails; he has no idea what Daly is referring to, but whatever it is, it won't end well for him.

"Captain, no - no - I have never kept any intelligence or reconnaissance on him from you."

Daly doesn't respond; he simply renews his grasp on Walton's hair and drags him along the corridor the short distance to the interrogation room. 

. . .

Walton is naked, draped over what looks like an old-fashioned racing hurdle, but the top is a steel rail rather than a flat hurdle board. His wrists and ankles are shackled to the base of the contraption, and he has to compensate for the fact his wrists are secured to the same point as his ankles by shifting upwards and forwards over the bar, his ass tilted upwards, defenceless and exposed. He is aware that Daly is standing behind him, his eyes no doubt raking over the bare ass and unprotected genitals laid out before him.

"My, my, Lieutenant. You are so perky and so _ready_ for me."

Walton struggles, the metal shackles jingling, as he hears the all too familiar sound of lubricant being squirted out. That's the only warning; Daly simply forces a cold, lubed-up fingertip into his unprepared hole, and presses in. Walton squirms; it's beyond humiliating, being restrained like this, his ass canted upwards for Daly to explore, his soft, creamy cheeks and anus utterly defenceless.

"Please, Captain! Please, Sir - please _Robert_. Please, don't take me like this. I'm too - I'm not..."

Daly simply laughs.

"Oh, I'm not going to fuck you yet. You need to be punished first. But I will have you, afterwards."

Daly grabs his buttocks and spreads them wide, stretching open Walton's anus, using his thumbs to press in and distend it even wider, as Walton hisses and yelps at the sensation of having his asshole ripped open. Then, Daly's hands are gone, and Walton is left alone, restrained and humiliated, awaiting whatever Daly has in store for him next.

. . .

There's silence in the room for a while, broken only by - presumably - the noise of Daly occasionally tapping on his omnicorder. Walton is aware that Daly is no doubt deliberately keeping him waiting, and that this is part of the punishment. He shifts, trying to ease the cramps caused by his unnatural position, attempting keep the jangling of the shackles as quiet as possible, but the sudden silence as Daly stops tapping signals that he's been unsuccessful.

Walton startles as Daly presses a warm palm to the small of his back.

"Tell me what you are, Walton." 

He doesn't understand. What does Daly want from him? He falters, knowing that whatever he says will no doubt be a wrong answer. 

"I am a Lieutenant of Space Fleet, Captain?"

Daly reaches between his thighs and squeezes his testicles, _hard_.

"That's what you do here, Walton. It is not what you _are_. What are you?"

Then, he knows what Daly wants him to say.

"I'm pathetic, Sir." he whispers, hating himself for his weakness. 

"Well done. That's right, Walton. You are a pathetic piece of shit. Now, say it again, louder. What are you?" 

Walton says it again, as loudly and firmly as he can, restrained in his position.

"I am a pathetic piece of shit, Sir."

Daly smiles.

"Very good, Walton. Now, I am going to punish you with this transparent aluminium cane. You will count every stroke out for me."

Daly pauses.

"And, after every stroke, you will repeat exactly what you _are_."


	2. Chapter 2

Daly makes a great show of swishing the cane, drinking in the sight of Walton's buttocks clenching and trembling, as he desperately tries to relax them in anticipation of the pain to come, knowing it will hurt more if he doesn't. 

"Transparent aluminium, Walton. Strong. Light. Capable of delivering, I understand, the most exquisitely painful caning possible this side of the Bajoran Wormhole."

Despite his humiliating position, Walton cannot prevent himself rolling his eyes at the - presumably - Space Fleet reference. Does Daly not understand that this is a pile of fictional bollocks?

Then, there's a pause, a long pause, and suddenly there's the sound of the cane swishing through the air and a line of fire forms across his buttocks, burning deeply. Walton exhales in a strangled gasp, his muscles clenching uncontrollably as he tries to process the pain. Dimly, he becomes aware that Daly is speaking.

"I'm waiting, Walton." 

"One," he counts, hoping that will do. 

There's another line of fire across his ass and he cries out in pain. 

"We won't move off "one" until you say it, Walton." 

Walton rocks against the unforgiving steel hurdle. There's no hope, no escaping from this hell. Just get it over with, he tells himself. Just make the pain stop, and he can get back to nursing bottles of blissfully numbing space booze. 

"One. I'm a pathetic piece of shit, Sir."

Daly roars. "Well done, Lieutenant!"

Daly hits him again and again, each stroke landing near to the last and hurting more than he would think possible. Walton struggles in vain, trying not to cry as the waves of agony wrench through him.

"Ten. I'm a pathetic piece of shit, Sir." 

Then the omnicorder bleeps and Daly pauses to pick it up.

"Mmmm. Pizza. See you later, Lieutenant."

Walton stares down at the grey steel floor, his bruised nose beginning to bleed afresh as he begins to cry.

"Pause game."

And, just like that, Daly's gone, leaving him alone, his restrained, naked body trembling as it reacts to the trauma it has experienced. Any more strokes are going to be even more painful after this delay. He is acutely aware of his position, his defenceless ass canted upwards, his legs spread, and his genitals hanging down between them, and there's nothing he can except wait. Wait for his tormenter to return from eating his pizza. Wait for him to deign to find the time to continue punishing him.


	3. Chapter 3

It seems an eternity before Daly returns. He says nothing at all to Walton, nor acknowledges the delay in any way. He simply picks up the cane and adds another blisteringly painful red stripe to the collection decorating Walton's ass. During Daly's absence, Walton's gone from simply cold to full on shivering, and the pain makes him cry out, trying to stutter out what Daly wants to hear. 

"El - el - e..e.. Sir, I think it's el - even. I'm... I'm a p..p.. Sirrr..."

Daly snorts. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."

Grasping Walton's hair, he pulls his head up and backwards, his other hand squeezing tight around his throat. Then, unexpectedly, he leans down and looks, searchingly, into Walton's face.

"Is it so very painful, then? James?"

Walton looks up, sobbing, his face a mess of tears and snot, nodding as much as he can in his bent over, restrained position. Daly releases his grip on his hair, and begins to stroke Walton's face, wiping away the mess and smoothing back his hair.

"Shhh, James. I have you. Shhh, now."

Walton cannot help himself. He has suffered so much, and this is the first thing that's not felt bad in such a long, long time. He's not sure that it's _good_ , exactly, but it's gentleness rather than cruelty, comfort rather than pain. Sniffling, he rubs his face against Daly's thigh, seeking out the comforting warmth of simple human contact. As his breathing gradually stills from panicked, gasping, heaving sobs to calmer, muffled sniffles, he presses his lips to Daly's uniform trousers.

"Robert."

Daly sinks down to his haunches and takes Walton's face in his hands, cupping his cheeks in his palms, and smoothes away the remaining tears with his thumbs, examining Walton's face. Daly's expression softens, and Walton is suddenly back in his freshman year, remembering his first meeting with a gauche, sandy-haired, bespectacled guy who's a bit of a nerd, but funny in a dry, self-deprecating way. Walton isn't nearly in the same league intellectually, but he's damned clever enough to recognise a budding programming _genius_ when he meets one. They become the unlikeliest of best friends; the extrovert, sexually-driven party guy and the quiet, _chaste_ , computer nerd.

But then, when they set up Callister Inc, Daly by stages began to withdraw from their friendship. Their easy, fun discussions about how they'd take on online gaming, and become the biggest gaming company in the fucking _world_ , just gradually died away, and Walton slowly began to regard his former friend as something of a social liability, best kept cloistered in his office.

But it is in this moment, naked, chained, in pain and utterly humiliated, that Walton suddenly realises, cursing himself for his stupidity, what drove Daly to close in on himself and alienate him. He _wanted_ Walton. He wanted Walton to love him the way he loved him. Walton's sexual preferences have always been happily, _innocently_ , heterosexual, and he never once suspected that Daly had any feelings about him other than resentment at how Callister Inc has enriched Walton at the expense of Daly's obsession with his TV series.

But - _fuck_ \- Walton's feelings for Daly, whilst trapped in this nightmare version of Infinity, have gone from sadly remembered friendship, to disbelief at his treatment of him, to baffled fear of his constantly changing moods, to genuine terror and loathing.

"James?"

"James. My James. Tell me."

Walton waits for Daly's next command. It won't be something he wants.

Daly smiles, stroking Walton's face. "My James. _Mine._ "

"Tell me that you love me."


End file.
